Survival of Hope
by lostrocket
Summary: This is a rewrite of the end of the novel, and I stole shamelessly from the original novel. I also stole a teeny bit from Alexandra Ripley's Scarlett - a few words which I took from Mammy and gave to Melanie - so few that it's more that I must credit the idea and the sentiment, rather than the actual dialogue. I don't own Gone with the Wind or Scarlett, of course.


_The carriage rocked to a standstill in front of the flat little house and Rhett handed her out. Trembling, frightened, a sudden feeling of loneliness upon her, she clasped his arm._

"_You're coming in, Rhett?"_

"No," he said, and turned to get back in the carriage. Scarlett dug her fingers into his arm.

"Rhett! You can't - I can't go in there."

Rhett turned his blank eyes to her, and she shivered. His deep black eyes were so empty and cold, sunken in his expressionless face. His face was frightening her even more, but his arm under her cold hand was still warm and thick with muscle. His arm felt like strength and life, and she clutched it desperately.

"Please, come with me."

Rhett shrugged. With his free hand, he pried up her fingers and tucked her arm neatly through his.

"If you insist, Scarlett," and though his dull voice chilled her, she felt stronger for entering the house by his side.

The warm light inside the house belied the tense and grieving stares of Ashley, Aunt Pitty, and India, huddled in the parlor. Dimly, Scarlett felt shock at the sight of India, whom Melanie had banished from her home, but at the grief-stricken face her own heart clenched in fear.

Ashley moved towards her with a slow, shuffling gait. He raised his hand as if to touch her, but as his dim grey eyes took in Rhett's towering form the hand dropped back to his side, with a tremor that made it flutter through the air.

"She asked for you," he said. "She asked for you - Scarlett."

Scarlett swallowed hard, and it hurt her throat. Both her hands were clutching now at Rhett's arm. The yellow light seemed to cast strange shadows, half-glimpsed out of the corners of her eyes, frighteningly elusive. Rhett felt solid and sure, a wall of strength to tuck herself against as the palpable air of grief in the small room buffeted her.

"Can I see her now?" She looked up at Rhett as she said this, but she didn't know why.

"No. Dr. Meade is in there now. I'm -" Ashley glanced again at Rhett, and stopped speaking.

"I came as quickly as I could," Scarlett said. The room was stifling and her cloak felt heavy, but she couldn't bring herself to release Rhett to remove it. With one hand she fumbled at the ribbons of her bonnet and tossed it on a chair. "The train- She isn't really- Tell me, she's better, isn't she, Ashley? Rhett said - oh, don't look at me like that! She isn't really-"

"She kept asking for you," said Ashley, finally looking at her. His face was bleak and her heart dropped. Fear began to beat in her breast. Her fingers clenched around Rhett's arm, her nails digging into the fine fabric of his jacket, and she raised her own frantic eyes to his. It can't be true, she thought vehemently, looking desperately to Rhett for reassurance. It just can't be true!

"It can't be true," she whispered, silently urging Rhett to meet her gaze. He knew her better than anyone, mostly to her chagrin, but now he turned his head away and stared at nothing.

"I don't believe it!", she burst out, turning to face Ashley, Aunt Pitty, and Melanie. Her eyes flashed defiantly, daring them to contradict her. "And why didn't Melanie tell me? I'd never have gone to Marietta if I'd known!"

"She didn't tell anyone, Scarlett, especially not you," Ashley began.

"Especially not me?" cried Scarlett, indignant. "But why wouldn't she tell me?" Again, her face turned from Ashley and sought Rhett. She didn't know why this should be, as Rhett's face was still expressionless and distant. But Rhett had always been strong; stronger, certainly, than anyone else gathered in the parlor, in the sickening yellow light. Rhett always had an answer for everything, he would know what to do. Hadn't Rhett saved them once before, that foolish night when Ashley, Frank, and the other men had gone raiding. Rhett had warned them, Rhett had made the plan, Rhett had brought Ashley home.

But as she studied Rhett's profile, reading the signs of drink and dissipation in its sagging lines, she remembered with a queer pang that Rhett was not the same. He seemed sober, she decided, but one night out of one hundred did not mean much. He looked worn, and beaten down and, she thought for the first time, old. He looked just as sad, even useless, as the other three. She redoubled her grip on his arm again, and pressed her nails hard, hoping to stir him.

Finally Rhett turned and looked down at her. For the first time that night, something leavened the emptiness of his gaze; but it was the sneering sort of mockery she had always hated. "You wouldn't have understood, how badly she could want a baby." At least he had dropped his voice too low to be heard by Aunt Pitty and India. "And she knew you would scold her, and be angry with her."

"No, I -" but Scarlett couldn't finish the sentence. Rhett was right and wrong. She would have been angry, she did not understand how Melanie could risk her life for something so foolish! Didn't she know they needed her - didn't she know how badly she, Scarlett, needed her? But she knew, angrily, that Rhett wasn't just talking about Melanie and her baby. He was talking about _their_ babies - and he was wrong! She did understand about wanting babies, but she had never, ever told him how badly she had wanted the baby they had lost.

And she had never spoken of her grief over the loss of their daughter - to Rhett or anyone. The only words she had had for Rhett after Bonnie's death had been vicious and accusing, and never once had she tempered them with an apology.

Scarlett's eyes went dim before she dropped her head. "Rhett, I -", she began, but this wasn't the time or the place to even begin to think of any of these unsaid sentiments.

The door of Melanie's room opened then and Dr. Meade came out into the hall, shutting the door behind him. He stood for a moment, taking in the arrested tableau. As he came toward Scarlett, standing against Rhett, she saw grief and pity in his gaze - but when it fell to her, she saw also dislike and contempt that flooded her frightened heart with guilt.

"So you finally got here," he said. Scarlett wanted to cry out, to protest the unfairness of that statement. _I came as soon as I could - as soon as I got the telegram! I wouldn't ever have left if I had known! _Didn't anyone understand - didn't _anyone_ know her?

Ashley started suddenly, moving toward the closed door.

"Not you, yet," said the doctor. "She wants to speak to Scarlett."

Scarlett actually shivered, so strongly did she feel a chill sweep through the room. It seemed to roll over her on Dr. Meade's words, and gust from the sudden flash of hate that turned India's grief stricken gaze. She lifted her face to Dr. Meade, unaware that her clear, still eyes chilled him in return.

Scarlett took a step toward the doctor, tugging at Rhett's arm to get him moving. Dr. Meade flicked his eyes over the pair, then shrugged in a small movement. They moved down the hall, Scarlett tiptoeing carefully, but Rhett's Indian-like gait made no sound as usual. Outside the closed door, the doctor put his hand on Scarlett's shoulder in a hard grip.

"Now, Miss," he whispered briefly, "no hysterics and no deathbed confessions from you or, before God, I will wring your neck! Don't give me any of your innocent stares. You know what I mean. Miss Melly is going to die easily and you aren't going to ease your conscience by telling her anything about Ashley."

Scarlett suddenly burned wherever she felt Rhett's body against her. Not daring to glance up at him, though she so badly wanted to see his face, she hissed, "I have nothing to tell her about Ashley. Let me in, you old fool - before -!" her mouth dried up and again, she could say nothing more.

Dr. Meade looked to Rhett, and at his nod, opened the door. Suddenly, for all her frantic desire to see Melanie, Scarlett could not move. Her feet were glued to the floor by dread. As long as she stayed out here, in this dim hall, Melanie was fine. Melanie would come out of that little room, her skirts swishing and her voice warm - as no one else's was, these days - as she greeted Scarlett. Her lips would be soft and warm as she kissed Scarlett's cheek. If she didn't go in that room, everything would be fine.

Looking down at the top of her black head, at her shoulders rigid with tension, Rhett felt a surge of impatience. He had not planned to accompany Scarlett in here; his plans had been quite the opposite. But as she squared her shoulders, clearly trying to summon the courage to enter Melanie's sickroom, he felt a curious flicker against his heart. It was the first thing he could recall feeling since the drink had finally, blessedly, numbed him through after Bonnie's death.

Gently, Rhett disentangled their arms, and wrapped his about her waist. With a firm grasp, he propelled her forward into Melanie's room.

The room was in semidarkness, and the air was heavy and stifling. Despite the force of his arm, Scarlett stood transfixed just inside the door. When she saw Melanie, she knew. Memories from those awful days of nursing in the hospital during the war came over her. If it wasn't for the support of Rhett's arm, she might have fallen. Her knees were weak with the realization - she had seen that pinched look on too many dying faces.

But Melanie could not die! It was impossible - small, fragile Melanie had already survived so much. Scarlett leaned heavily against Rhett's strength as blackness momentarily swept her. Beau's birth, the flight from Atlanta, her grim recuperation in poverty at Tara - Melanie had come through all of that. She couldn't die now. Not now when - when Scarlett needed her!

The truth surged in, down to the deepest recesses of her soul. She had relied on Melanie, even as she had relied upon herself, and she had never known it. In all of the greatest struggles of her life, Melanie had been by her side. Melanie had helped Scarlett with burdens no one else could have borne. The Yankee at Tara - the fire - her own miscarriage. Melanie had nursed Scarlett back to health, yet as she looked at the shrunken figure beneath the threadbare counterpane Scarlett knew it was too late for her to do the same. And she knew, though she had not realized it before, that Melanie had been her sword and her shield, her comfort and her strength.

Scarlett remembered Melanie at the top of the stairs, with Charles' saber in hand, dragging along the floor. Weak, gentle Melanie would have hefted that brutal weapon and rushed to Scarlett's aid. Who else in the whole world would do the same?

Not even her husband, Scarlett thought. Not now.

Scarlett tiptoed across the room, leaving Rhett's arms. Rhett sat heavily in a chair beside the door and dropped his head in his hands, his elbows digging into his thighs. Grief dragged at him; the fresh grief of his daughter's death, coupled now with grief for Melanie. His throat was thick with unshed tears and his ears were plugged, dulling what little sounds stirred in the dark room.

Scarlett sank beside the bed with a rustle of skirts. She grasped Melanie's pale hand, lying atop the coverlet, and shivered with its chill.

"It's me, Melly," she said.

Melanie's eyes opened for a brief moment. After a pause she drew a breath and whispered:

"Promise me?"

"Oh, anything!"

"Beau - look after him."

Scarlett could only nod, a strangled feeling in her throat. She dropped her head to the coverlet and pressed her forehead gently against Melanie's cool, fragile hand. She dimly heard, as if from a long distance, Melanie's quiet voice as she gave Beau to Scarlett's care. She was barely aware of her own response, the promises to Melly - anything, she would give her anything, promise her anything. If only Melly wouldn't die!

"Oh, Melly, don't talk like this! You know you'll pull through this-"

Melanie shook her head weakly, and it was the barest trace of movement. "Shh."

After a pause, she spoke again. "Ashley - Ashley and you-"

Scarlett's heart stood still, as cold as granite with her. Behind her, Rhett lifted his head, and his black eyes burned with a strange light. But no one was looking at him. Scarlett had dropped her head again, her throat aching with a sob she could not realize. Melanie knew!

"Ashley," Melanie whispered again, and again. Scarlett cringed inwardly, writhing with shame at the hurt she had so carelessly and selfishly caused. If only Melanie would live - she could make it up to her - she would be a different person now.

She felt a light brushing touch against her hair. She squeezed her eyes tight, gathered her courage again, and raised her wet eyes to Melanie's. She saw only the same dark loving eyes, but no sign of reproach or accusation. She shied away from their sunken, deathly look, but a warm feeling of gratitude rushed her as she realized - Melanie did not know. Melanie was unaware of how she had betrayed her, how she had coveted - Scarlett had parted with religion long ago but under this wave of gratitude she thought a prayer of thanks. Melanie's eyes closed again, the lashes fluttering weakly.

"You'll - look after him?"

Scarlett's heart stuttered. Remembering his presence at last, Scarlett turned her head slowly toward the door, and the chair where Rhett still hunkered. In the dim light, his features were difficult to make out, but what illumination there was reflected out of his black eyes. She saw his mouth twist but there was not enough light to decipher the expression.

"He catches cold - so easily," Melanie was saying. Scarlett felt her heart in her throat. She turned hastily away from Rhett, not understanding the flush that seemed to burn her cheeks with shame.

"Look after-his business-you understand?" Melanie was saying.

"Yes, I understand. I will." Her stomach was sinking now, and she pressed her forehead against Melanie's hand again. "I'll look after him, I promise," she whispered, unable to understand the dread she felt; but she looked at Melanie and pressed a kiss to the cold back of her hand to seal the promise.

Melanie's eyes closed and her body relaxed into the pillows, ease filling her as she passed the care of her husband and son over to Scarlett.

"You're so smart-so brave-always been so good to me-"

Scarlett clapped her free hand to her mouth and bit her thumb to keep from crying out the truth of her duplicitous motivations. The tears that stung the corners of her eyes started to flow, carving hot tracks down her cheeks. She blinked them away fiercely. She must let Melanie go easily, without tears, with love to comfort her. Oh, if only she hadn't been so blind! If only she had realized how she had cared for Melanie before today.

The door opened slightly and Dr. Meade whispered to Rhett. He stood and walked to Melanie's bedside.

"It's time to go, Scarlett."

Choking on her tears, Scarlett pressed her cheek to Melanie's.

"Promise me-" came the whisper, very softly now.

"Anything, darling."

"Captain Butler - be kind to him. He - loves you so."

"Rhett?" thought Scarlett, bewildered. How could that be - Melanie must be delirious - of course.

Melanie's hand lifted weakly towards Rhett, and she raised her voice, though it was still barely above a whisper. "Captain Butler," she called.

Slowly, reluctantly, Rhett knelt at the bedside next to Scarlett. Scarlett lifted her cheek from Melanie's and looked at him. She was confused now, and twisted with grief for Melanie, and breaking under the cumulative pain of the last months. She looked at Rhett's dark face as he took Melanie's hand and, lifting it gently, kissed it with the flourish of a gentleman. What did Melanie know - Rhett didn't love her. Hadn't he always said that himself? _No, my dear, I'm not in love with you_ \- he'd never said anything else, not seriously.

"Captain Butler," Melanie's voice was the barest whisper again. "Take care of Scarlett." Now Scarlett turned wild eyes back to Melanie, shocked. Melanie opened her eyes again and smiled at her. "She needs you, Captain Butler."

A muscle in Rhett's jaw twitched, so close Scarlett could see it even in the darkness, as he repeated her own words. "I promise, Miss Melly." For the first time that night, his voice was not expressionless, but warm and caring.

Melanie closed her eyes, still smiling. Rhett stood, and moved to pull Scarlett with him. Frantic and bewildered, she resisted, pulling away from his grasp.

"Scarlett, it's time to go." Rhett's voice was cold again. It chilled her to the bone. Leave Melly - the only warmth left in the whole world! But Rhett's implacable force compelled her. Scarlett kissed Melanie's cheek and whispered, "Good night."

She let Rhett propel her out of the dark room into the hall, where they stood, blinking as they adjusted to the suddenly bright light. India and Aunt Pitty swept past them into the room. The door closed behind them and the house was still. Stepping back from Rhett, Scarlett lifted her head, meeting his empty eyes.

Behind that door, Melanie was going and, with her, the strength upon which she had relied unknowingly for so many years. What would she do now? With this empty stranger in her life - this cold, uncaring husband.

"Melly is the only woman - maybe even the only person - except Mother who really loved me," she thought. Suddenly it was as if Ellen were lying behind that closed door, leaving the world for a second time. Leaving Scarlett alone again, to wrestle the future with her bare hands, with her own brute and bullying strength - but she could not face life without the strength of the weak, the gentle, the tender hearted.

Rhett loomed over her, his black eyes boring into hers, but he offered no comfort. He didn't move to fold her in his arms, he didn't try to say anything soothing. Wearily, Scarlett leaned her head against the wall.

Rhett sighed. "Let's go home, Scarlett." Meekly, she nodded, and followed him towards the front door.

In the front room, they found Ashley sitting alone. Scarlett didn't even register how Rhett's body stiffened beside her own as she cried out, "Ashley!"

When he raised his head, she trembled. His grey eyes were no longer shrouded and dim, but wide and fearful. She rushed to him and dropped to her knees, but after one aborted movement in his direction, rested her hands on the edge of the seat, and did not touch him. Ashley made no move toward her, but stared at her, intently, for a long moment. Then he lifted his gaze and his eyes met Rhett's above her head. She saw his whole body shudder before he dropped his gaze back to her.

"I was wanting you," he said. "I was going to run and find you - run like a child wanting comfort...all of the strength I ever had is going with her." Scarlett shivered at the cold grief in his voice. She could not speak, and Ashley continued in a whisper.

"She is the only dream I ever had that lived and breathed and did not die in the face of reality."

An old irritation stirred in her breast. It was always dreams with Ashley! And in the mad turmoil inside of her, she felt as if a curtain was pulled aside. Behind it, she saw their long history, stretching back before the war. She saw her girlhood crush on the golden knight of Twelve Oaks, the nostalgic glow of which had blinded her for so long to his faults and flaws. She felt again their embrace in the mills - on that day that seemed so long ago now - and the warmth of their shared history in his arms, but not passion. Not love. And she saw, at last, his love for Melanie, and so clearly it surprised her that she hadn't seen it sooner. And it did not hurt - because she did not love him.

Had they truly loved each other, once? She had thought herself in love with him for years, but as she looked into his fearful eyes, terrified of the realities of life, she knew that she had never really loved him. He had been a dream from long ago, something she made up as a child and had clung to through war and desperation. She had wanted him with a child's greedy selfishness, longing after a shiny toy. She remembered the friendly, but passionless warmth of his embrace that long-ago, horrible day at the mills. She did not want him as a woman could want a man, and it seemed she never had. Whatever might have existed long ago had long become a made-up fantasy, and not a clear picture of the man.

As that inner curtain pulled aside for her at last, her vision cleared. She saw Ashley, his shoulders stooped with grief. She rested her hand gently on his and spoke softly.

"She'll want to see you in a moment and you must be brave. She mustn't see that you've been crying. It would worry her."

Ashley wrapped his arms around her with a crushing grip, and she let him hold her until, with sharp urgency, Dr. Meade called him to Melanie's side.

Pitty and India came out of the sickroom as Ashley rushed in, sobbing as the door closed behind them. Scarlett recoiled before them, unwilling to bear these burdens so soon. They would be looking to her for instructions, looking to her leadership, and she couldn't bear it yet.

She had forgotten about Rhett! Frantically she swung her head around the room, and found him propping up a wall near the front door. His hands were shoved deeply in his pockets. Deaf to Aunt Pitty's cries, she rose and walked to him. She wanted to touch him, to have him wrap his arms around her and give her his strength - but his empty black eyes stopped her.

Rhett watched her dispassionately as she moved towards him. He remembered jealousy, in a detached, intellectual way; not as something he felt in the moment when Ashley's arms had clutched at his wife. He did not feel moved, and he wondered why Ashley had recoiled so from his gaze, unaware that - though the emotion could not break the surface of his penetrating numbness - a harsh, threatening light had gleamed in his eyes when Scarlett had knelt by her would-be lover.

Scarlett faced that punishing stare now and, swallowing hard, murmured, "Let's go home."

She let him lift her into the carriage, and clung to him so that he had to awkwardly follow her. She would not release her grip. She felt weak with grief, but a desperate strength tightened her fingers on his sleeves. As the carriage jerked into motion, she pressed her face against his shirt. Rhett's arms were strong around her and she breathed in deeply. He smelled of tobacco and horses, and, despite his current sobriety, faintly of brandy. The old, comforting smells that meant home, and strength.

And love? Melanie had said - but Scarlett shivered and shied away from those thoughts. It was all too complicated - it was too much to think about, now.

As the carriage rocked and swayed, she tried to find warmth and and strength from Rhett, but he was stiff and unmoving against her. The chill of the air outside had gripped her and would not be warmed away. Oh, Melly! And Ashley - the _burden_ of Ashley, depending on her once again. She knew she had the strength for it - for she had carried so many, so very many burdens already - but just then she felt only hollow and empty. Her shoulders felt small and stooped, not strong at all. "As long as I live I'll have to look after him and see that he doesn't starve and that people don't hurt his feelings," she thought bitterly. Her eyes stung with unshed tears as she peeped at Rhett through her thick lashes. She found no comfort there. His expressionless face frightened her and left her feeling even more alone. How could he be so unfeeling now?

It wasn't far to their house on Peachtree Street. Dazed, starting to lose coherency in the face of the emotional winds buffeting her, Scarlett let Rhett hand her down from the carriage and lead her into the house. After the yellow light and plain, bright simplicity of Melanie's home - the loss of the warmth of Melanie in her world - the heavy dimness of her own house hurt. Her eyes strained to see and the darkness felt heavy and smothering. It affected her viscerally, she felt as though every breath had to be dragged free.

Rhett led her to the dining room and she sank into the chair he pulled back for her. He took the heavy cut glass decanter from the sideboard as he rounded the table and sat down across from her. He poured two short glasses and slid one across the wide table. Scarlett picked it up, but did not drink.

His dead eyes were not mocking, but nor did they betray any emotion at all as he raised his glass to her. "God rest her," he said heavily. "She was a very great lady." Rhett bolted the contents of his glass but Scarlett choked on her own small sip.

"Oh, Rhett!" she cried miserably. "What shall I do? I - I loved her so!"

Although his words were jeering, his face did not change. "I suppose it's to your credit, considering your passion for white trash, that you could appreciate her at last."

Scarlett stung from the truth of these harsh words. It would be useless to contradict Rhett. He knew her mind; often, it seemed even when she didn't know herself.

"She was the only completely kind person I ever knew," Rhett was saying, and his empty eyes looked past her at something she couldn't see. Scarlett shivered and shrank from his otherworldly stare. That cold emptiness seemed to settle in her own belly and she took a hurried, spluttering sip from the brandy, desperate for the warmth. Tomorrow - she must think of this later, tomorrow, when she could stand it, but not now.

"A very great lady," Rhett repeated, and in his voice, on his face, was a poignant note of farewell that raked like nails across Scarlett's fragile calm and drove out the fragile warmth from the liquor. Suddenly the feeling of emptiness and loss swamped her and upended her completely. A sob burst from her chest and her tears fell thickly. She could not sit still, staring across the table at her husband's unfeeling face. Suddenly she rose and turned her back on the table. Going to the window, she clutched the curtains. The heavy velvet felt slick in her sweaty palms.

The house was silent. She had left the children in Marietta with Prissy. Not a sound betrayed the presence of anyone else in the whole place. She heard every noise distinctly, sharp in the emptiness. The rasp of her breathing. A faint squeak that must be Rhett turning his brandy glass in his hand. Even the slick slide of the curtains in her grip.

She bowed her head until she felt the texture of the rough velvet against her forehead. She was alone by the window; Rhett made no move to offer her solace or comfort. She felt the emptiness of the whole house as if he weren't there, and she was lonely. She had been lonely and afraid after Bonnie's death, but she had still had Melanie. Now, there would be no one to whom she could turn; not if Rhett persisted in this empty apathy that left her cold and bewildered and so alone. She shuddered away from the picture of the long years to come, without Melanie, locked in this silent house with her silent husband.

"I can't think about this now," she thought. "I can't go crazy in front of Rhett." With the strength of will she had called on in so many crises, she threw her shoulders back. She lifted her head and blinked rapidly to clear her eyes. The tears stopped as suddenly as they had come on.

"I'm tired," Scarlett said, and her voice was loud in the overwhelming silence. "I'm going to bed." She left the dining room without looking at him.

Rhett watched her leave, his face outwardly unmoved, still unchanged. His heart, still raw with Bonnie's loss, was buffeted by grief. This new loss damaged the numb equilibrium he had managed to find, where grief was carefully locked away and emptiness was all he had to feel. He should not have accompanied Scarlett into that house, much less that deathly bedroom. His throat was full of unshed tears and his large chest felt entirely empty. The hollow feeling dragged at him. His heart hung in the void, stinging.

He thought of the suitcases on his bed upstairs. He had been packing when Uncle Peter had come that morning with the news. Calmly, with the lack of feeling that he had now lost, he had sent the telegram to Scarlett, returned to the house, and finished the task. All he had to do was pick them up and walk out.

Grief laid him low. Bonnie, Melanie. All the light had gone out of the world, all grace and beauty. Up one flight of stairs, back down, out the door - that's all it would take. But his arm shook, violently, as he refilled his brandy tumbler, splashing the liquor over the table. He didn't trust his legs. When he sipped the drink, it tasted salty. Suddenly he was aware of the wetness on his cheeks. He rested his elbows heavily on the table and bowed his head into his hands. Tears splashed in the spilled brandy.

But he was silent. This grief was too powerful, and overwhelming. It felt thick in his throat, cutting off all sound.

A long time later, the tears started to ebb. The choking weight drained from him slowly. As the tears dried, his eyes cleared. They stung grittily, but he was no longer blinded by grief. The light on the sideboard wavered in the sheen of brandy on the table. It was weak and wobbly, pale in the dark puddle.

His heart contracted painfully as the aching grief relented. The hard shell he had wrought to protect his heart after Bonnie's death had broken open under the onslaught of fresh grief for Melanie. He had wanted to avoid her deathbed, not to test his own strength in the face of yet another loss. And he had failed that test. He had failed when he had allowed himself to be swayed by Scarlett's uncharacteristic weakness and need.

He was no longer numb, no longer empty.

With a curse, he rose unsteadily and, lunging, swept the glasses and decanter from the table. They shattered on the floor, the brandy soaked immediately into the thick rug. All his defenses had been swept away and shattered just the same. Rage roared in to fill the emptiness; stunning in its strength; and leaving as quickly as it came.

He swayed on his feet. He thought again of the suitcases upstairs. What time was it? Could he still catch a train? Any train. But he didn't need to find the clock to know it was too late. It had been too late when Scarlett had clutched his arm and said, "Please." The suitcases, upstairs on his bed; his wife, upstairs in hers.

When Bonnie died, the grief had been overwhelming. He had drowned it in alcohol and painstakingly walled it off, both effectively numbing him, inuring him to the effects of the loss. That wall had its foundation in the almost as dark days after Scarlett's own miscarriage two years ago. Behind the first wall, he had buried his love for her. He had suffocated it with cool politeness. It had ceased to trouble him. He had believed it gone - worn out, worn away. But the old, familiar jealousy had burned him when she went to Ashley's side. An impossible fire that licked around the edges of his defenses, his supposed numbness.

He was no longer numb. He burned. With jealousy, pain, grief, hurt, anger. Even love. And so what now? The years stretched out before him, locked again in silent battle with Scarlett.

He could not. His love may not have worn out, but his heart had. No, it could not be too late to leave. He headed up the stairs, his feet growing steadier with every step.

He came to Scarlett's door before his own, and stopped. He looked down at the door knob, which gleamed in the darkness, catching a weak vestige of light from somewhere. Was it locked? Had it ever been?

Wearily, with difficulty, Scarlett had shed her clothes and unlaced herself. It seemed too difficult to lift her arms again, and she crawled into bed in just her shift, foregoing a nightgown. Drained by the long and heartbreaking day, she fell asleep almost immediately. But heartbreak followed her, tracking her in her dreams.

She saw again the pale, sunken-eyed form of Melanie on her deathbed. "Oh, Melly!" She cried and threw herself down on her friend, sobbing out her grief. She felt Melanie's soothing hand stroke her hair.

Then the dream changed. The hand on her head grew cold and, lifting her eyes, she saw with horror that it was a skeletal hand. Looking down, Melanie's face seemed to melt away before her eyes, leaving only white bone. She tried to scream but it was stifled in her breast. Urgently, she pushed herself up, and turned away.

That's when she saw her. In the corner of the room, on a mangy pony covered with sores like the horse that had taken her from Atlanta long ago, sat Bonnie. For a second her heart leapt with joy, until Bonnie's frame too began to melt. No, not Bonnie, her beautiful baby. It was too much to bear. She fled.

She found herself in the road. There were no landmarks visible in the thick fog, but she knew in the way of dreams that it was Peachtree Street. The road home - home! She had to reach home. Up the dim street she fled, and the fog thickened around her, clutching her with a clammy grip. Fear squeezed her heart. Was she going the right way? Where was home?

Then before her eyes there loomed a light, a row of lights, dim and flickering but growing stronger as she passed beneath them. The fog was pushed back by the warm glow and suddenly she saw, at the top of the hill, her own house. The fog ebbed away from the strong lights that shone through every window, lights defying the mist to dim their brilliance. Home was there!

Home, and Rhett. That was where she was running. Rhett would be there, in that house. Not Ashley - never Ashley. The revelation that she did not love Ashley, and had never loved him, swept through her for the second time that night. It had always been Rhett - Rhett who had strong arms to hold her, a broad chest to pillow her tired head, jeering laughter to pull her affairs into proper perspective. Rhett who had always seen her for who she was, and was now the only person left in the world who liked her any way. "I love him," she thought, in a moment of stillness within the nightmare. "I should have realized it long ago. I love him! I must tell him. I mustn't waste any more time - oh, Rhett!"

Exhilarated, she started running again, able now to see her destination. Yet her steps did not close the distance. Her lungs began to burn with effort, and still the house was no closer. Rhett! "Rhett!" she cried.

In the waking world, Scarlett thrashed at the heavy covers, her legs kicking with the effort of her nightmare. "Rhett," she murmured, then called, then sobbed. "Rhett!" she screamed, with desperation, as the haven in her dreams disappeared back into the fog.

The sound of her own voice woke her at last. When she opened her eyes, Rhett was leaning over her. The moon through her open curtains fell bright across his face, and in the silver glow she could see his eyes burning with their own inner light. Gone was the fearsome emptiness, and in its place was a terrible grief that pulled at her own soul. Scarlett reached for him, and threw her arms around him, sobbing into his shoulder. He picked her up in his arms like a child, like he had done the very first time in New Orleans; like he had not done for so many years. He held her close, but he did not soothe her with gentle murmurs and reassuring caresses. She felt his shoulders heaving under her arms and heard the hoarse, barking sobs he buried in her hair.

As her fear ebbed, brought to heel by the strength still present in his heavy arms, she thought "But I have so much to tell him. I hurt him - I hurt him so badly, after Bonnie...and before! Oh, he must know how I wanted that other baby. And we can have other babies - not like Bonnie, but we can have a new start. Oh, Rhett," she wanted to say, "we have a chance, don't you see? Oh thank you Melanie, thank you..."

But all those words would have to wait. There was something even more important than all of that, something she must tell him right away.

"Rhett," she breathed aloud. "Oh, Rhett, I love you so. I was such a fool."

Rhett went still as stone against her. What should he say? His bags were still packed. They were still waiting for him, just steps away in his own room. It was not too late to grab them and leave this house, this mausoleum. He still hurt, with more pain than he knew how to bear. But in the slender steel of Scarlett's body, he knew he could find strength enough for them both. If his shoulders were not strong enough, hers were strong enough for them both. The will of Scarlett O'Hara knew no end - what had to be borne, she could find the strength to bear. Rhett was still hurt; but he was not, after all, worn out. He found his love for her still burned. It was a small and fragile flame, without much hope of fighting the darkness of this overwhelming grief on its own.

But with Scarlett's fire to feed that flame, the unrelenting force of her passionate nature bent to him at last, he could hope. It wasn't much yet, just a barely perceptible light in the darkness, but he reached for it with both hands.

"Was it your old dream?" he whispered. Scarlett tucked her head against his shoulder. "Oh, yes! Only, Rhett, it was different this time."

She sucked in a breath.

"I was running through the mist, but then I saw our house. And I knew, I knew immediately - I was running to you. And if I could only reach you, I would be safe."

"I'm here, Scarlett." he said hoarsely. "I'm here."

**...**

_**"**__Hope is your survival" - Clannad, __Ciarán __Brennan_

_Notes: I'm technically working on other things but there are so many potentially pivotal moments in Gone with the Wind that my mind keeps getting snagged. So for the record - I don't actually think this is that realistic! At the end of the novel, I don't think Rhett's love has "worn out," but I think he is completely numb, depressed, and alcoholic after Bonnie's death - things that would take a long time to work out. I'm trying to explore that but I just got caught on a "what if" - if he had gone into the house with Scarlett, and seen both her grief and her interactions with Ashley, and it threw a wrench into his plans. It would have to catch on some remnant of feeling within him, a spot where his utter numbness failed. _

_I don't really think he would be reachable that night, but it was fun to explore._


End file.
